Prologue
by Riene
Summary: In 1880 Paris, a man returns to reclaim the Opera as his sanctuary. Set before Red Rose and A Second Chance, and the ALW stage play. E/C, complete.
1. Chapter 1--Returning

**A/N** — _Prologue_ can be read as set before my short novels _Red Rose_ and _A Second Chance,_ and to most extent, the ALW stage play _Phantom of the Opera_ , but not the 2004 movie. The characters are of course from _The Phantom of the Opera_ , by Gaston Leroux, _Phantom_ , by Susan Kay, and the musical by ALW and the Really Useful Group. The scenery and timeline are my own, as are the slightly different characterizations. Long time readers will no doubt recognize the origins of the underground home and other parts of that story having their roots in various scenes. I intend four chapters to this mini-series.

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.

 **Please read and review.**

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

2017 by Riene

 _ **Chapter 1-Returning**_

 _Paris had its own gods. The city had no idea a new one had arrived._

Mist softened and diluted the golden lamplight, lending a gentle ambiance to the silver and green streets. Paris, the city of lights. Wearily he stretched, easing the burning of muscles used too long without rest. Another corner, another street, a side alley, and then yes, there it was.

He stood alone in the shadowed side of the alley observing the people bustling in and out of the stately building opposite. The copper sheathing had finally been completed, and the gilded statues were less hideous than he would have expected. Skirting the building, he followed men in the back entrance, pausing occasionally to get his bearings. Little had changed.

He had not intended to return.

The trapdoor led to a crawlspace just low enough to be uncomfortable. Judging from the cobwebs and dust, no one had accessed this service tunnel in many years. That was just as well with him. The crawlspace led to another, and then to another hinged wooden door concealing an iron ladder. Tunnels now, some barely wide enough to slip through if a very thin person were to turn sideways. The dry musty air grew more chill and gave way to a smell of damp stone, of mud and moss and things long hidden began to permeate the stale air. Another turn, and yes, stone corridors now, the supporting pillars and arches of the very foundations of the Opera House. Past the cistern, in one of these vaults, lay what he sought.

Immensely pleased with his own foresight, he inspected this old retreat. He had had the gas and water lines extended here and they appeared to be intact, though still sealed off. He would need to test them and the sewerage drains as well. Heating had always been an issue, but with luck the ventilation shafts too remained unblocked, and a coal fire or two could be lit. Even the furnishings appeared to have survived the years of storage in the cool, dry air of the caverns.

Arriving as they did amidst the pieces intended for offices, dressing rooms, practice rooms, and alike, no one had noticed his own bits on the docks, and he had simply spirited them away into storage rooms and moved each chair or chest at his leisure. The grandest coup had been the enormous piano, a ridiculous risk and luxury, but he had not been able to stop himself. Disassembling it had been tricky, and transporting the parts worse, but somehow he had carried it off and now it sat, hideously out of tune and discordant, but his. Thin lips twisted into a sneer, remembering the unholy uproar as to how an entire piano could be misplaced.

He raised a candle, burning the cobwebs overhead. The rooms needed a thorough cleaning but would easily be habitable again. The walls were well insulated with sandbags, both to prevent moisture from entering and for added warmth, and then paneled with smooth golden-brown wood. Only two rooms had been completed, the entryway of sorts, and the room with the bookshelves and piano. The kitchen was rudimentary at best, with a gas ring for cooking, a Welsh dresser containing a few dishes and utensils, and a worktable. He had forgotten how much space there was in these dark and hidden chambers…room for two bedrooms, a dining room, a workroom for his projects, washrooms, seven rooms in all.

* * *

He stood on the Opera roof, impassively surveying his new demesne. That he was even here at all was a surprise; Paris was a retreat, not a destination. He had built the underground lair almost on a whim, never intending to return to the country of his origins. But Ankara was becoming unstable and was far too close to Persia. Novgorod and Konigsberg were increasingly unpleasantly cold on his damaged bones. Central Europe held no interest, the Balkans old memories; the Mediterranean world was too humid. London was a possibility, should Paris not prove feasible, and perhaps even the New World from there. He had read that the American West was a place where men did not ask many questions. But he liked amenities, and the West as of yet lacked most of them. The ship journey also did not bear thinking about—weeks of concealment in claustrophobic spaces.

But Paris was only temporary. There was nothing to keep him here.

* * *

Though his exit had been made with some alacrity, it had not been entirely unplanned. For weeks he'd been aware of the Shah's increasing displeasure, instigated mainly by the man's virago of a chief wife. Each trip to visit the new palace gave him opportunity to stop by a certain inauspicious rock outcropping and secrete away a few items. Soon his beloved violin, compositions, a change of clothing, dried food and skins of water, two knives, and all of his money lay hidden. When the time came, he would take the swiftest horse in the stables, what jewels he could lay hands upon, and flee.

It would be irksome to leave behind the unfinished palace and he would regret never seeing its completion, but the last year had become unpleasant. He was an architect and engineer, not a court magician or even a musician, hired to entertain the guests of the Shah, though he had often played both roles as needed. He had not minded fulfilling the role of political assassin and executioner, for at first the men selected had truly deserved a hideous death at his hands. But he had discovered the Shah's wife took a sadistic pleasure from watching those men die, and she had begun to request his services as entertainment. He'd been rewarded well, first with jewels and a large suite of rooms, then with an offer to choose from the harem. He had refused, wishing neither the debt or to be seen. Rumors had circled about him, that he was either a lover of men, punishable by death, or not a whole man. Taking a malicious delight in tormenting him, the chief wife had arrived in his chambers one night with a young girl.

She was stunning, an houri out of legends. The queen had parted the young girl's silken robes, revealing golden skin, painted hands, supple limbs, rounded breasts like ripe pears, and a shadowy triangle between her legs. The girl was an odalisque, trained in pleasuring a man in many ways, untouched and his for the taking. Desire had slammed his body, hot and hard, his mouth dry and head reeling, the overwhelming lust nearly causing him to double over in pain. Gleefully amused at his reaction, the Shah's chief wife had suddenly reached out and clasped his hardened manhood, stroking his burning flesh through the black robes. He had jerked back, knowing he was seconds from humiliating public shame. But the girl, realizing for whom she was meant, began to cry, quaking in fright at the sight of the cloaked assassin. She had begged for her life, then finally for her death, rather than touch the man behind the black porcelain mask, the man whose glowing golden eyes proclaimed him a demon. He had refused the girl, furious and constricted with pain.

One night she'd gone so far as to have touched him in her own lust, wanting to experience a European for herself, a man whom she suspected to be so much more potent than her own husband who spent himself among the younger women of the harem. To touch the queen was punishable by a swift and ugly death, to refuse was worse. He'd had no choice and departed the palace on wings of utmost haste.

She had summoned him in to her chambers immediately upon his return from the construction site one afternoon. Nearly naked, the queen had reclined on her silken pillows and pulled him down next to her, sliding her hands under his loose trousers, cupping him. It was the first time he had felt another's hands upon his body, and so deprived of human touch, he'd hardened instantly. "So you do want me," she'd purred, stroking his arousal. Disgusted, he'd pulled her hands from his body, grateful for the mask that hid his features. Kissing her fingers, he murmured words of endearment and passion, while his mind frantically spun. After a moment he rose, deliberately shaking a cloud of dust and grit from his clothing.

"My lady, I am filthy," he murmured. "Would you grant me the privilege of a quick bath, so that I may return to you as you deserve?"

She agreed, but sent him under escort to his quarters, and it was then he knew he was to die, no doubt after satisfying her curiosity. The men entered his outer chambers, waiting, and he locked himself inside the inner rooms. Removing a bag from a hidden niche behind the ornate paneling, he had added the food laid out for his evening meal and any valuables at hand. Strapping a knife to his leg, he changed rapidly into the garb of a groom then exchanged the porcelain mask for a new one of thin chamois skin leather. Seconds later, he began to fill the bathing tub, breaking the pipes deliberately, and shimmied his thin, agile body through the impossibly small appearing back window. By the time they realized he was gone, he would have stolen a horse and would be on the outskirts of town.

Several days' riding had brought him across the plains and through the mountains to the border of Anatolia. He'd sold the horse in Ankara and had hidden there a month, living among the alleys and backstreets, making plans to return to Europe. His wanderings had taken him to the far north, but as summer ended and winter approached, he'd instead returned to France, away from the driving winds and snow. And now, here he was in Paris, driven underground like an animal.

* * *

Be awesome and leave a review. Please?

~R


	2. Chapter 2--Changes

**A/N** — _Prologue_ can be read as set before my short novels _Red Rose_ and _A Second Chance,_ and to most extent, the ALW stage play _Phantom of the Opera_ , but not the 2004 movie. The characters are of course from _The Phantom of the Opera_ , by Gaston Leroux, _Phantom_ , by Susan Kay, and the musical by ALW and the Really Useful Group. The scenery and timeline are my own, as are the slightly different characterizations. Long time readers will no doubt recognize the origins of the underground home and other parts of that story having their roots in various scenes. I intend four chapters to this mini-series.

 **Thanks** to FlickerintheDark, cotesgoat, EliseDAae, Syri Reed, Guest, ghostwritten2, LittleLongHairedOutlaw, Animekitty47, BadassSyd, VeroniqueClaire, Mominator124, and SpookyMormonHellDream for your wonderful comments on Chapter 1!

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.

 **Please read and review.**

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

2017 by Riene

 _ **Chapter 2-Changes**_

Two weeks later, he surveyed his efforts with no small amount of satisfaction. The paneled walls gleamed in the gaslights, the piano had been painstakingly tuned, a few books graced the shelves, jeweled tones glowed from a thick Persian carpet on the library-music room floor. Two tapestry-covered chairs faced the fireplace, a small table between them. A sideboard held several bottles of fine wine, cognac, sherry, and whiskey. A stack of creamy thick paper awaited inspiration, and his violin rested inside its case on the shelves.

New cushions would be arriving soon for the sofa in the entryway. A long carpet ran the length of the room, softening echoes and footsteps, and he'd acquired a stand for hat and stick. The kitchen larder was restocked and the gas ring was now functional. He'd been fortunate to find a cooperative grocer and baker, willing to fill written orders left with prepayment on an account, and an elderly Jewish tailor who did not mind meeting a stranger in the late evenings. The Rue Scribe passage was now his entrance and egress of choice after hours.

The days passed quickly, filled with projects to make this underground space more habitable. He was tinkering with a device to use gas flames to heat water for bathing, and thus far it appeared to be working, although at present it could heat only small amounts at a time. He needed a larger tank, but finding one was the issue. Failing that, perhaps he could find a way to tap the lines from the great boilers above, whose steam heated the vast building in the winter.

On his nightly trips to acquire coal for his fireplaces, he explored the building, marveling at the changes. Some were stunning, others gaudy. The mirrored hallways, gilding, carvings, ornate stonework, and fantastic décor made the building opulent, a stunning jewel rising among the reconstruction after the war. It seemed no one had discovered amongst the innumerable pillars, alcoves, mirrors, and panels the network of passageways, service tunnels, and hidden spaces. Perhaps no one now remembered them from construction time, and he had made certain they were not included on the final architectural renderings.

There were few familiar faces throughout the building. The new orchestral director was a M Reyer, a thin, acerbic, wiry man with a biting sarcastic tongue and flustered demeanor. Though the man gave the impression of being addlepated, he was sharply aware of every pulse within the Opera House.

One familiar face was that of Madame Giry. In the last few years she had risen from a mere instructor to the position of ballet mistress. Her imposing presence made itself felt throughout the backstage and she was one of the few members of the House whose word was Law and commanded respect.

He did not recognize a single member of the chorus, nor most of the corps de ballet. A few faces stood out—little Meg Giry was now a willowy young woman of twenty or so. Her soft blond curls had darkened into a dark honey but those huge hazel eyes were no different. Jammes, once a tiny impish sprite, had become a young girl with pansy-brown eyes and a heart-shaped face. Meg's awkward friend, the Swedish orphan, had grown taller and more graceful as well, with arresting midnight blue eyes and long coffee-brown curls. Sorelli, once the terror of the students due to her passionate temper and tantrums, had become the leading soloist. All long legs and dark liquid eyes a man could lose his soul in, she was a fiery spirit on the stage with no end of admirers.

Moncharmin, the manager, had already earned a withering contempt. A ladies' man, he spent far too much time in pursuit of his latest conquest and neglected affairs at the Opera. Shoddy workmanship, incompetent employees, disarray, and slipshod methods were rampant. There were constant complaints about a lack of funding, and he wondered if the man was siphoning off some of the profits for personal use. If so, there were lovely possibilities for blackmail.

* * *

 _Blast and damn_ , there was someone in the passage. He cursed himself for attempting this shortcut. At one point this upper corridor had been virtually unused, but in the years of his absence the alcove had been turned into a makeshift chapel where a wooden screen partially concealed the small area from the rest of the corridor. A roughly padded kneeler waited in front of a rack of votive candles, and above it hung scattered small crosses and prayer medallions. Artists of varying skill had painted angels, saints, martyrs, and the Holy Family on the walls above. While it made a peaceful place for prayer, it was at the moment most inconvenient.

Irritably he shifted from one leg to the other. Footsore and weary from a day's errands above ground, he was wet and cold clear through and wanted nothing more than to sit by his fireside and nurse a bottle of brandy until he was either warm or too numb to feel the chill and damp. Instead, little Giry's friend, Christine, knelt at the rough altar, seemingly lost in prayer. He could not risk passing her and thus became an unwilling recipient of her confidences.

The young woman finished her silent prayer, then sat back slightly, her shoulders slumping, and sighed, staring up at the shadowy paintings on the wall. Tears hung on her long dark lashes and she drew in a shuddering breath. He clenched his teeth; how he loathed crying women, but she merely began to whisper and the sound carried clearly to his sensitive ears.

"Father…I wish you were here to help me. I don't know what to do. It's been twelve years, Papa, since you left me alone. I know you are happy with Mama, but why could you not have stayed with me just a while longer?"

"She's lost the money, Papa, and it's taking all of my salary just for food and to pay the woman across the hall to sit with her. She's so sick, Papa, I can't leave her alone and I don't know how to pay for the doctor and the medicines he wants and the money for the flat." Her breathing was becoming ragged.

Merde. Would she never cease this whining and leave so he could pass? He shifted the weight on his back and tried to ease the tension from his bad shoulder. Perhaps he could scare her away somehow.

"Papa…you promised me a guardian angel when you left…an angel to watch over me, perhaps even the Angel of Music himself. This….this would be a good time." She made a sound, a cross between a choked laugh and a sob.

An angel. He nearly laughed out loud. How naive, how childish. What fool believed in anything otherworldly? He shifted again, his back beginning to become unbearable. He would have to do something soon to make her leave.

From the shadows he studied her, calculatingly. Would she actually believe a voice if it spoke to her? He was adept at ventriloquism, and knew well the power of his tone, his damned ethereal, haunting voice, the voice that had driven men to madness. Or maybe…maybe it was more simple than that. If she just needed money… From his pocket he pulled a wad of francs. Food, she'd said, and medicine. A doctor's bill and rent. How much did it cost to pay for a flat? Oh, what did it matter, as long as she left? He smoothed the bills neatly and fanned them, then with careful aim and a deft flick of his fingers, sent them fluttering down around her, smirking at the astonished expression on her face.

Christine's eyes slowly opened at the sudden brush against her cheek and shoulders. Something softly falling…colored paper pieces…banknotes? Francs? With a soft cry she reached out and lifted one from the floor, then rose, whirling around in shock. A dozen or more pieces fluttered down to fall around her skirts. Gasping, she swiftly collected the notes…a small fortune, more than enough for… She froze, clutching the banknotes to her chest, then spun about, searching the shadows. "Who is there? Who…how…why?" she stammered.

He shrank back even further as her eyes passed over his hiding place. _Take it, go,_ he silently urged her. After a minute, Christine's eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you," she whispered fervently. "You can't know how much I needed a miracle." Clasping the bills to her heart, she knelt and crossed herself, bowing her head once more, murmuring a prayer of thanks. Then, in a swirl of skirts, she ran lightly down the corridor.

* * *

"Christine," Meg's doubtful voice echoed about the small chamber, "I know what you said, but how?"

Dark blue eyes sparkled down into hazel-green ones. "I don't know either, Meg, but you saw the money yourself!"

Meg sighed. Christine was a dear sweet girl, but there were times she still seemed to live in the fantasy world of her childhood, the world into which she would retreat when tired, sad, or lonely. "Could it have fallen from above? As if someone had hidden them up there?"

Two sets of eyes looked upwards, but only the plain plastered ceiling, painted with iconography, met their gaze.

"Maybe someone was passing by…"

"And simply threw money at me?" Christine's voice was incredulous, and Meg sighed again.

"No, I suppose not."

"I would surely have seen anyone else here," she insisted firmly.

Meg thrust her hands down into her pockets, grumpy and dissatisfied. For all her romantic ideals, she was a cautious, practical young woman. "What have you done with the money?"

"Paid for the flat, paid the doctor's fees, bought medicine and nourishing foods, and coal for the rooms. It was so cold in there. And I've hidden the rest of it….Mama won't even know I have it, and maybe she will get better, and be able to tell me what has happened to her account."

"Don't spend any more of it than you have to, please," Meg Giry begged. "I cannot believe that it just fell from the sky…and it would be so awkward if anyone was to come and demand its return!"

Christine sighed. She did not really believe in angels either, but the money was so fortuitous and mysterious. Somewhere, somehow, she had a benefactor…and that person needed to be thanked. From a pocket she removed a letter and with a soft smile propped it up on the votives rack. "There," she said. "I've thanked my 'angel' and asked if I need repay the money. Don't fret so, Meg. It will all be fine."

"I hope so," her friend muttered, and the two headed downstairs.

* * *

The white envelope caught his eyes on the next trip. Addressed simply as "To My Benefactor" and signed Christine, it was leaning against the stone wall on the top rack of candles, slightly soiled from smoke but oddly untouched otherwise. He plucked it from the rack with disdainful fingers. No doubt she would be begging for more funding. Once below in his home he would amuse himself by reading it, then cast it into the flames.

But it was not so. The letter was short, sweetly thanking the mysterious person who had sent the banknotes fluttering down around her at a time when they were so desperately needed. _You were my guardian angel, my helpful friend,_ she'd written, _and it means more than you can ever know. Thank you, thank you. If you need repayment, please do not hesitate to let me know. When Mama is well, I shall happily make restitution._

 _With humble gratitude and an overflowing heart,_

 _Christine Daae_

He moved as if to toss the note into the coal fire, but at the last minute, folded it neatly and slipped it into a drawer, for reasons he could not explain. How long had it been since anyone felt kindness or gratitude toward him? It was a novel sensation.

* * *

The new screen painter was superb, even he had to admit. Climbing high amongst the flies, he located the piece in question and leaned in to observe the technique, taking care not to ignite the highly flammable fabric. Up close, he could see how the man had created that sense of gauzy mist over the mountains that looked so realistic from the floor.

Voices. With one swift move he extinguished the small lantern and froze in position. He had no fear of being seen in the shadows, dressed in black, but there was no point in risking the light.

"…know how long it will take. When the meeting is over we can leave. I'm glad you're coming home with us tonight, even if it's just for dinner."

"Mama is visiting with her cousin tonight. I am so grateful she is feeling better."

Little Giry and her friend. He grimaced, hoping they were just passing through the backstage area, but the two young women stopped downstage, facing the stalls. Carefully he began sidling across the wires back to the catwalk.

"…was _furious_! Did you see her face? I thought surely…apoplexy…"

Laughter, pure as a peal of bells. He paused, struck by the unusual sound, and quickly descended the ladder to the second level, leaning over and listening.

"…couldn't, from where I was, but how she hates to be corrected!" The two women were vainly trying to smother their amusement. Little Meg struck a pose from the current dramatization of _The Tales of Hoffman_ , a stance he recognized as that of La Carlotta, the Opera's reigning diva. Meg flung her arms out dramatically, and shrieked the lines, causing the other girl's voice to ring out in that glorious peal of laughter again.

"That's not at all how I'd do that part," Christine mused, when the two had regained their composure. "I'd be more gentle…I think she's too aggressive, myself, but that's what the director wants," she sighed.

"I wish you _would_ do it," Meg said gloomily. "Carlotta is going to give us all headaches. You know she likes to brag she can crack the glass on the chandelier. You really should try out for a part some day, Christine."

But the older girl shook her head. "I'm just a dancer and good enough for the chorus, Meg."

The little blond turned to her fiercely. "That's not true, Christine. I've heard you sing, when you think no one is listening. You have a good voice. It's not powerful, but it's pretty. I bet in time you would be marvelous."

"I'd need years of lessons."

"No, you wouldn't. Look…there's no one here. Sing, Christine…show me how that scene should be done. No one will ever hear you but me, and it's your chance to try out the stage while we wait on Maman." At Christine's stubborn look, Meg sighed and stepped forward, lifting her voice. "Like this….AAAAAAAAAAAA."

Up on the catwalk, he winced. Meg was no singer, to be sure. Not expecting much he shut his eyes against the coming assault on his senses as Christine stepped forward.

 _Les oiseaux dans la charmille_

 _Dans les cieux l'astre du jour,_

 _Tout parle à la jeune fille d'amour!_

 _Ah! Voilà la chanson gentille_

 _La chanson d'Olympia! Ah!_

 _Tout ce qui chante et résonne_

 _Et soupire, tour à tour,_

 _Emeut son coeur qui frissonne d'amour!_

 _Ah! Voilà la chanson mignonne_

 _La chanson d'Olympia! Ah!_

She sang without warm up, there was no power to her voice, but oh, the tone…impossibly pure, a golden sweet soprano, effortless and trembling with emotion as she sang _The Doll's Song_ to an empty theatre. He leaned back, stunned. Where had that voice come from?

Down on the floor, Meg was applauding, as Christine took mock bows and laughingly accepted an immense bouquet of invisible flowers.

"You see? You could do it! That was so much better than Carlotta! There's just no way _she_ could be such a lovely little doll! Especially a _little_ doll!" Meg giggled.

Christine turned away from the empty house, her smile falling into lines of sadness. "It will never happen, Meg. I would need lessons…and you know I can't afford them. It takes all of my salary just to keep the flat together." They began walking toward the wings of the stage.

"She never did remember where she'd put the Professor's money, did she?" Meg's voice was sympathetic.

"No, and I don't have any hope of finding it. It's not in the flat…she thinks she entrusted it to someone. Oh Meg, it's such a mess." Their voices faded off as the two young women passed through the side door.

Up in the walkways, amongst the counterweights and flies, the listener stood, stunned. Her voice had affected him like a bolt of lightning, shocking in its intensity.

* * *

Be awesome and leave a review. Please?

~R


	3. Chapter 3--Opera Ghost

**A/N** —Just one chapter to go in this little prologue. You can expect some E/C interaction in the last chapter!

I'd like to thank Child of Dreams, cotesgoat, BadassSyd, come-to-me-musicals, ghostwritten2, Animekitty47, Mominator125, SpookyMormonHellDream, and EliseDaaae for their reviews, encouragement, and support! It means a lot to me, especially on those nights it's hard to feel positive!

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.

 **Please read and review.**

 _ **Prologue**_

2017 by Riene

 _ **Chapter 3 - Opera Ghost**_

Somewhere, _anywhere_ , away from the stage and La Carlotta! She couldn't stand another minute around that diva and her coterie. Down Corridor B, at the end near the awkward intersection, lay one of the unused secondary dressing rooms. She and Meg had often hidden and played in there at children. The furnishings in these rooms were older, having only a chaise lounge, chest, screen, and dressing table. The true allure of this particular room lay in the enormous mirror on the back wall. Rising from just above the floor to nearly the ceiling, it was of a height that a tall man could see himself completely in it, and its hazy surface had reflected countless hours of entertainment in the form of play-acting of the two young girls. Now the room served as a refuge.

Christine lit two of the gas lamps and threw herself down on the dusty chaise, fuming. Carlotta had been insufferable, blaming every missed cue, every improper position on those around her, especially those girls of the chorus. Several had rushed backstage in tears after rehearsal today, and even Meg, normally so optimistic and cheerful, had been reduced to a stuttering apology, her face flaming, blinking away tears of rage at the diva's insults.

"She's so horrible!" Christine muttered, rising to pace the confines of the small room. "So hateful! And she's such a _cow!_ "

A low chuckle reached her ears, and Christine spun, staring toward the door. It must have been someone in the corridor; she would have to lower her voice. It would never do to be caught in this room.

* * *

He stood behind the mirror, watching the girl with some curiosity. She had no way of knowing of his presence; the mirror only worked one way and was in actuality, a passageway. He'd come down this side route, needing to reach the offices, and stopped at the unexpected dim glow from the mirror. Someone was in the room. He paused, listening to her rant, immediately surmising the target of her tirade.

The insufferable diva had obviously been on the warpath again today, and this girl must have been the target of her usual tirades. She glanced up sharply at his inadvertent chuckle—he had forgotten the interesting acoustics of this room, with its concealed channels for air circulation into the corridor beyond, which also carried voices so clearly. He would have to be careful.

The girl intrigued him with her voice, her passion. He found himself seeking her out on his rounds throughout the day. One night he went so far as to follow her home and discovered she lived in a small set of rooms with an elderly lady. The rooms were in a crowded apartment in one of the poorer arrondissements. It would be an unpleasant journey during the winter to and from the Opera House, and he shook his head, bemused, wondering why he cared.

The old dressing room was apparently her favorite place to rest or wait, he noted. One evening when the building was silent, he entered the chamber, wincing at the tooth-grinding shriek of metal on metal from the old mirror entrance. He spent some time that night cleaning and oiling the mechanism until it was soundless, and finally, placed a heavy brass key in the topmost drawer of the chest. Refuge was a concept he well understood.

* * *

The manager, Moncharmin, was simply incompetent. A businessman, he had no real love for nor understanding of music. Some employees had been hired on the basis of political or familial connections, others as apparent favors. Some, merely because they were a pretty face and willing to spend time in the office. As a result, incompetency ran riot. He could hear the exasperation in the ballet mistress's voice and the conductor's fury. These two he respected, but they were two among very few. A perfectionist himself, he found the problems personally offensive. The caterwauling of the chorus was too much for his sensitive ears; something would have to be done and soon.

Autumn was on approach and the city grew colder by the day, including the catacombs beneath the city and the underground house. His damaged joints and bones ached with the cold. In his present black mood, he took a malicious pleasure in tormenting those he deemed the most egregious of the offenders, and methodically plotted his dominion over the Opera House. It had taken surprisingly little effort to spread his presence throughout the building, for many theater employees were a superstitious lot. Angled just so a lantern or candle reflected in his eyes, suffusing them with an eerie golden glow. He knew the locations of gas cut off switches and would make the lights go off with a satisfactory pop. Sheet music vanished, reeds split, music stands collapsed. Shoe ribbons became hopelessly knotted, lights flickered in certain dressing rooms. Props and hairpieces disappeared. The faintest trace of lye in the drinking water scratched throats until one by one, the worst offenders left, convinced they were being persecuted. He had taken to sending anonymous, black-bordered letters to M Reyer and Mme Giry, alternating between sharp criticism and useful suggestion. Rather to his surprise, his comments were often obeyed. No one wished to incur the wrath of the unseen spectre.

Moncharmin was proving to be a rather satisfactory source of income. The opportunity had arisen only last month. The manager was ensconced in his office with an older, married woman, pressing kisses on her hand, and as the wine fell lower in the bottle, places of a more intimate nature. He had watched in grim amusement as the man kept one eye on the door as he continued his dalliance, and the other upon the rather sumptuous charms of the giggling woman.

He'd made his voice soft at first, a whispery laugh, until Moncharmin was on his feet, frantically looking about to find the origins of that mocking voice. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the resident spirit of these walls, the Ghost of the Opera, if you will. It is me you have to thank for the true management of this building."

"What…what do you mean?" the man blustered. Behind the panel, he quietly turned a valve and the gas lights popped off, startling the manager.

"I know everything that goes on within my walls. Everything, good sir. The Opera Ghost sees all. You would do well to stay upon my good side."

The man spun about, eyes wide and searching. "Show yourself."

He laughed, a soft, low chuckle. "I think not."

Moncharmin pulled himself upright, blustering. "I do not deal with charlatans and frauds. What do you mean…I am the manager here! What job do you do?"

"Why, my dear Moncharmin! I have many roles, and I rather think my services are invaluable. Who do you think it was that distracted M Voisine while you were…entertaining…his wife? That was a near miss, you know. A few moments later and…"

"What do you want?" Moncharmin was visibly sweating.

The Voice was amused. "Why, I should think it obvious. I require a small stipend, a salary, if you will, to remain in my good will."

"A salary?" he blustered. "And for what? Blackmail!"

Again that low, soft chuckle. "Oh, I think you will find my bonhomie quite important. I do far more than pay attention to your little…indiscretions. There are props to secure, scripts to correct, scores to adjust. Someone must be certain those innumerable sandbags are secure…it would really be a pity it anything were to fall…"

There had been stories, subtle changes, rumors of a 'ghost' about the backstage, of alterations and rearrangements, rumors that had reached even his ears. He straightened. "I don't deal with swindlers or threats. I shall call the police!"

"I see you require convincing. Au revoir, M Moncharmin." And with a mocking laugh, all went silent.

* * *

The man made a tall and imposing figure as he walked with assurance through the Opera House. Scene-shifters, painters, and construction crew saw him most often, and occasionally even the seamstresses, chorus, and ballet rats. He walked as if he owned the House, not merely as a patron or guest, an imperial figure in solid black, pale austere face, and fedora pulled low over his features, cape billowing behind him. It was rumored he wore a mask. The members of the Opera shrugged and went about their business. Eventually their betters would introduce this mysterious man, if man he was, and in the meantime they left him alone. Another occupied their attention more, a spectre said to wander the Opera House, this one a death's head with glowing golden eyes, sometimes seen by the firemen or the despised rat-catcher. Superstition and fear followed those occurrences, for it was often not long after a sighting that an accident would occur.

The following afternoon was no exception. A fragile and expensive light stand fell over, sending glass shards across the stage. A sandbag fell, narrowly missing one of the principles. Props went missing, the main score disappeared. Half of the cast and chorus came in late, confused by the notes they had received informing them of a delayed rehearsal. An entire backdrop fell to the floor, the pulleys spinning frantically as a rope gave way, scattering the stage crew beneath. Some swore they had seen glowing eyes, others a contemptuous laugh. The day was a disaster.

Angrily, Moncharmin gritted his teeth and surrendered. With opening night so soon, the House could not tolerate another series of delays. Resigned, he stared at the black-bordered note and reached for bankbook and pen.

* * *

Alone in her office, Adele Giry studied the mysterious note on her desk, a note which had most certainly not been there when she had left, locking the door behind her. The spiky black handwriting was unfamiliar but the contents were not. _…in our mutual best interests to cooperate…I will require little of your time. You will remember me as the personage you met on the night of your husband's demise…_ She took a sip from her rapidly-cooling tea, thinking uneasily. She did indeed remember that haunted evening, with a mixture of fear and gratitude, and did not like the veiled implications of this missive.

There had been a number of unusual occurrences lately, the dismissal of the two worst dancers, something she had been demanding for weeks, the sudden additional budget for new shoes and costume repair, and Meg's very odd story of the stagehand who had been harassing the dancers who suddenly found himself terrified of a threatening voice and now avoided the younger girls altogether. Few if any of the "ghost's" actions plagued the corps de ballet, though the silly girls seemed to delight in telling stories and seeing the spectre everywhere. Thoughtfully, Adele Giry laid the note aside.

* * *

The wretched musical passage would not leave his head. Irritably Èdouard Reyer made his way back to his office on the third floor of the Palais Garnier. He'd debated spending the night at his club—it wouldn't be the first time—rather than go back to his solitary, barren flat, and in the end, simply went back to work. Now as he approached the door, a faint, flickering light appeared under it, and he froze.

Several times in the last few months he had returned to find someone had entered his private office and made alterations in the score of whatever the orchestra was presently rehearsing. The changes were most often for the better, he had to admit; subtle alterations of tempo or dynamics, corrections of bad copies, a suggestion here or there, the writing done in a dark red, spiky ink. No one had admitted to being the culprit, if culprit was indeed the correct word. Admittedly, he had once or twice left a particularly difficult problem out on the desk overnight, in hopes the mysterious musician would lend a hand. A strings man himself, brass gave him the most difficulty in arrangements.

And now here was a light, and as he listened, the faint tones of the upright piano he kept in the office, should inspiration strike. Moving as silently as possible, he crept forward.

There was barely time to fling the cowl over his head as the office door slammed open. He leapt from the chair, bolting into the shadows, cursing himself for not locking the door. M Reyer stood there, eyes locked on him, breathing hard.

Èdouard Reyer was not a man given to religion or superstition, but the vague figure crouched in the shadows gave him a violent start. All but invisible against the far wall, his features were entirely hidden by a heavy cloak and hood. Only his eyes caught and reflected the candlelight, glowing golden like a cat's eyes in the dark. A pragmatist, he had not believed the stories of a masked demon who haunted the lower levels. Now it stared back at him. Reyer's eyes darted to the table, seeing the open score, and found his voice.

"Stay, please, I beg you."

The shadowy man, if man he was, straightened to his full height but did not move. Reyer slowly approached his desk, where slowly dripping candles were lit, keeping the table between them. Notations in red, as before. He studied the passage, fingers moving against the table, as he silently played the section in his head.

"An improvement, yes. This will indeed harmonize much better. And that counterpoint—it _is_ meant to be a counterpoint, no?—will work as well." The twin yellow eyes moved down, an acknowledgement.

Reyer's vision had become more accustomed to the dim light, but his "guest" was utterly featureless beneath the hood. He hitched a leg up on the desk. "I think it is you I have to thank for the alterations in the last few months." The head beneath the cowl inclined as if in agreement. "I think perhaps we both have the best interests of the Opera and the orchestra at heart." Again that inclination, and curious waiting silence. Carefully, Reyer laid the sheets of music back on the table. "I was having trouble with the brass section, but see you've surmised that and dealt with it. My…appreciation, sir." He smiled faintly. "I hope I can count on your continued…collaboration?…in these matters."

The spectral figure inclined its head a third time, and Reyer turned away, clenching his jaw and making a pretense of studying the score. When he looked up again, he was alone.

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review? It gives me the encouragement to post each chapter. :)

~R


	4. Chapter 4--Angel of Music

**A/N** —OK...one more after this. I thought it was going to be just four chapters, but a fifth (and final!) one is stubbornly appearing.

Hugs and big thanks to cotesgoat, EliseDaae, Mominator125, Animekitty47, Guest, LittleLongHairedOutlaw, FantomFriend, and SpookyMormonHellDream for their reviews, encouragement, and support! You're the reason I posted Chapter 4. :)

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.

 **Please read and review.**

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

2017 Riene

 _ **Chapter 4 - Angel of Music**_

 _Go home, go home_ , she silently urged the last of the stagehands. On this one night she had a chance to be alone, to claim the reward she had been promising herself all week, if only she could keep her temper and smile around La Carlotta and her minions. At last it appeared that the remaining seamstresses and costumers were gone, only the final few stage hands were left, tidying up or sweeping the spilled sand from a split bag seam. Soon, she would be able to step on that darkened stage and sing again, as she had a month ago with Meg.

The dancer's words had come back to her so many times in the past weeks, awakening a long-suppressed dream. How many times had she whispered to her father of her desire to sing? He had encouraged her, would urge her now to reach beyond the confines of the chorus, to try to attain her dreams.

For a week she had been waiting in the old dressing room, humming and singing quietly to herself, patiently watching the routine of the evening shift. This evening seemed the best; there was a late omnibus that ran by the Opera on its way to the churches and cathedrals, no rehearsals and no performances. And now, finally, this vast, silent, empty stage. She would test herself with no one else around to hear.

Hesitantly, Christine stepped forward. She has been careful to warm her voice in the little dressing room, and now looked out on the empty waiting rows of stalls and boxes. Velvet darkness met her eyes. Closing her eyes, she sang.

She began with a sweet simple tune from her childhood, one she could have sung in her sleep. Hesitant at first, her voice soon gained volume and strength as she unselfconsciously sang for the sheer joy of it. Yes, she _could_ do this.

He paused in the upper corridor, then slipped into one of the boxes on the Grand Tier where he could see the stage, and concealed himself behind the draperies. The young woman, Christine, was singing again, that bell-like pure voice rising from the stage in what sounded like a folk song. He waited, then as the notes died away she turned, as if listening behind her, then satisfied no one was around, stepped forward and began another song. Entranced, he stood motionless, his eyes never leaving her face. Such pure joy in those sweet golden tones. There were problems, yes, a lack of volume, a roughness in the lower register, breathy notes in the high, an unsteady vibrato, simple things that could easily be corrected. Hadn't the girl told little Giry she was untrained? But what lovely natural talent…

She fell silent, a hand on her chest, smiling and breathing heavily, a sparkle in her eyes he could see even from where he hid.

Though he could never afterwards justify it, he leaned forward and pitched his voice around her, softly, gently. "Bravi…bravi….bravissima…."

Christine whirled about on stage, her hand at her throat and eyes wide, clearly alarmed. She picked up her skirts and turned, moving quickly toward the wings.

"Don't go…please…"

She paused, shaking. "I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I know I shouldn't be here. Please, don't be angry."

He had frightened her. Even without her seeing him, he had frightened her. He modified his voice, gently urging. "Please stay…sing for me again?"

On the stage, the girl bit her lower lip. "Who…who are you? Where are you? Show yourself!"

"I cannot... But please…sing? Sing again?"

She hesitated, clearly uncertain. "What would you like me to sing?"

"Anything." _Don't fear me…please…_

The voice settled around her, warm, compelling, soothing. Christine bit her lip again, searching the stalls and boxes, but there was no one to be seen, and the voice, so hypnotic and gentle, could be coming from anywhere. Oddly, she wasn't frightened, and took a deep breath. As she began this time, her voice was thin, shaking from nerves, but steadily grew stronger, determined to impress her mysterious listener.

The last notes faded away, echoing slightly in the silence. Christine once again gathered her skirts and bowed slightly toward the empty theater.

"Thank you…"

"You're welcome," she replied awkwardly. "Now may I see you?"

"No. But perhaps…yes, perhaps we will speak again. Go now, and rest. The hour is late, and you must not tire yourself."

"Goodnight," she said softly, but no answer came to her ears.

Alone, below, he sat staring into the fire, swirling a snifter of fine brandy in one hand. Whatever had possessed him to speak to the girl? Already he longed to hear her sing once more, to pretend that lovely voice was meant for him, a sweet arrow piercing the icy wall he had built around his soul.

* * *

Though she did not sing again, he found himself more acutely aware than ever of the girl. She would never know the nights he had slipped after her, following her safely home on silent feet, watching over her lest any of the other, less savory shadows of Paris, dared look her way. He could have laughed at the thought that a creature like himself was the safest thing she could have been near in the darkness. He watched her at rehearsal, hidden high above amidst the flies and walkways, and at practice, where she bent and twisted, raising long limbs and pointed toes, arching her back and graceful neck until the stern ballet mistress was satisfied. The sight of her lithe dancer's body perspiring until her leotard was nearly transparent was sheer torment. Other girls were in the room, lined up in neat rows, bending and swaying, yet he had eyes only for her.

He had become a man obsessed by a girl half his age. There was not now a moment of the day that he was not possessed by thoughts of her. She compelled him to watch her, those long dancer's legs, barely covered by diaphanous costumes, those white, bare shoulders. Soft, they would be, soft and warm under his cold, bony touch. The sweet curve of her hips, the swell of soft, small breasts. He took a shuddering breath. He, who had buried such adolescent longings years ago, who had controlled and subdued the urges of a grown man, found himself dry-mouthed with want at the sight of her, found his hands trembling at the effort of control, awoke every night in cramping torment at dissipating dreams he could never fully recall, his hands grasping at the empty air. And yet the thought of ever trying to make her his… Loathing himself and the inevitable despair such thoughts twisted into, he rose, pacing the underground rooms and pouring yet another glass of wine. She could not ever see him, would never love him, never want him as a man…and he would not, could not, soil her with his unwanted hideous body, or by force.

He procured evening dress, a heavy formal cloak, and soft fedora, relishing the warmth they provided as well as the enveloping concealment. Box Five would be his for certain performances; though it did not have the best view of the stage it had the convenience of a hidden entrance, and his threats against Moncharmin had been most persuasive in securing it. He would be able to watch her perform from the shadows of the box, unseen. And perhaps one of these long evenings, she would gather enough courage to step onto the empty stage and sing again…for him.

With obsession came madness. He had listened to her conversations with little Giry as the two sipped their cafe au lait at the canteen or sat knitting and whispering in the wings, heard her fears as to her guardian's health and worry as to where she would dwell afterwards. Meg had offered room, but in a divine burst of inspiration he knew he must prepare for this time as well. The unused rooms below...what a splendid sanctuary they would make. Feverishly he prepared them, a bedchamber and bath, taking great care that only the finest of materials and craftsmanship were used. A deep rose and blue patterned carpet, ivory wallpaper, bath towels of the softest Turkish cotton, sweetly-scented floral soaps and powders. Water lines run into the bath chamber. A silver and ivory hairbrush, mirror, and comb for the dressing table. Fine white wool blankets and sheets of the softest linen for the bed, an embroidered counterpane. In the outer rooms he added a second, smaller tapestry covered chair by the fireplace, and purchased a dozen books and novels for her.

One day during rehearsal, greatly daring, he had slipped into the great dressing room used by the dancers and with trembling hands lifted her clothing. For a moment he was lost, lifting the mask and burying his hideous face amongst her garments and inhaling the sweet scent that was Christine. The measurements had taken only minutes and then he had slipped away, to be tormented that night by erotic dreams. But now...he could provide for her. Tea gowns of blush peach, soft rose, and azure blue. Small slippers for her feet. A dressing gown. Nightgowns of the warmest flannel so that she would not feel the chill air of these caverns. Stockings. Undergarments. These things were hung carefully in the wardrobe or tucked away into drawers with trembling hands, too sacred to be touched again. Should the need arise, all would be in readiness.

* * *

Yet she did not return to the silent stage to sing again. The _Tales of Hoffman_ had ended, rehearsals for the next show began, practices intensified, production of scenery was underway, the theater was ever busy. She was tired; there were dark circles under her eyes and a weary droop to her shoulders when the evenings drew to a close. The young dancer's evenings were most often spent at home, in the company of her elderly and ill guardian.

Her status as reigning diva secure, Carlotta demanded and received a larger dressing room and rise in salary. The soprano was increasingly unpleasant to the chorus and dancers, and he took great pleasure in tormenting her. Makeup brushes and powder puffs disappeared. A sandbag crashed near her feet. Her visage on a series of playbills was subtly altered. A headdress was too large one day, too small the next. The red coloring of the wig dripped down and stained her shoulders. It was childish, but so be it. Something in the diva's voice and mannerisms rankled; an unpleasant echo of another voice, another time.

Carlotta was well aware she was the target of a campaign of harassment. Jealousy toward someone of her caliber from the lower ranks was only to be expected. It was beneath her to deign to notice, but she employed a stagehand, Joseph Buquet, to watch while she was on stage, to prevent any further happenings, and she vented her temper viciously on those lower in rank.

One evening Christine retreated to the small dressing room, unable to find a cab and too tired to attempt the long walk home at such a late hour. Wearily she locked the door behind her and bent to remove her shoes. The dusty chaise would do for a bed, her coat for a blanket. She could slip out first thing in the morning and none would be the wiser. Yet sleep eluded her; the building settled with many creaks and sharp cracks, and she turned restlessly. Watching from behind the mirror, he sensed her unease. An idea occurred to him; he raised his voice, his poisonous, haunting voice, into a soft Persian lullaby. The music settled around her, softly soothing as a parent's love, warm and comforting. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her breathing evened out.

Much later, he released the catch on the mirror. It dropped silently and pivoted, allowing him to step through. Hesitantly he approached the chaise. Tumbled dark curls framed a pale oval face, long dark lashes lay on her damask cheek. Full lips curved in a faint smile; her dreams must be pleasant. She was an angel before him and he dropped to his knees, worshipping. For a moment only, his trembling fingers reached toward her cheek, then withdrew. He would not risk waking her. Carefully he pulled the coat around her shoulders, and slipped back through the door.

* * *

The Music surrounded her, a simple pattern of notes. She heard them in the dressing room, echoing up from the empty orchestra pit, in a whisper of wind in the corridors, and once in the prisms of the great glass chandelier.

She was not afraid of the Music.

The Music wrapped her in an embrace of safety, always with her, like a guardian angel watching over her, caring for her. She had almost come to think of the Music _as_ an Angel, a thought that brought a private smile to her lips and made Meg ask more than once of what she was thinking.

She told no one about the Music.

Sometimes in the quiet dressing room she would hum or sing back the pattern of notes to the dusty mirror, and wonder what she would do if there was a response.

Sometimes she wondered if the Voice and the Music were one and the same.

Sometimes she wondered if she were slightly mad.

Finally one particularly trying afternoon she stopped by the dressing room on her way home, waiting as the minutes ticked by until she could be certain that the insufferable diva and her friends had departed the building. To pass the time, she sang softly to herself, the songs of the current production, the pattern of notes from her Music, and heard a sigh.

Christine whirled, searching the room with wide eyes. "I…I know I heard something. Are you there? I know you're there…please…say something."

"Yes." It was the Voice. Soft as a caress, haunting and ethereally beautiful, a man's voice, an angel's voice, tenor and baritone and amber dark, a voice of velvet and smoke. She took a step back, one hand to her throat, pulse hammering in her ears.

"You are the Voice…the one I heard from the stage that night. Are you also my Music?"

"Yes, child." The Voice hummed, the notes falling around her like soft rays of light.

"I knew it. Sing to me," she whispered, mesmerized and yearning, and he obliged, unable to deny her request. His glorious tenor muted, he sang softly to her, watching the weary lines ease and peace steal across her face.

"You are truly the Angel of Music," she said reverently, when he paused.

"Child?"

She blushed. "My father used to speak of the angels. They were always in his stories, part of his faith. Guardian angels, avenging angels, messengers of God." Her voice was wistful, remembering. "He often said the Angel of Music had touched his hands and violin. That's why he could play so beautifully, and I believed it. He was truly gifted. I used to dream I would creep down the stairs one night and actually see the angel." She looked up, her eyes luminous with hope. "And now you are here. Would you teach me? To sing? You are surely _my_ Angel of Music." She laughed softly but her eyes were beseeching.

"I, child?" he stalled for time, mind racing. To be near her, to perhaps…

"Yes." She smiled wistfully. "I thought there were no angels….but your voice is heavenly. And I know you have been watching over me, caring for me…the key, the blankets." She blushed, gesturing around the room.

Her teacher. The idea seized him. To be in her presence…but she could never see him.

"Please." Her voice broke through his thoughts. "Your voice…it's like nothing I've ever heard. You sing so beautifully. No one here could hold a candle to you…you should sing for everyone…they'd fall at your feet."

"No!" At her startled, frightened glance, he modulated his tone. "No, child…none can see me…it is not safe to be near one such as I."

The bitterness had seeped through his tone and she bit her lip. "I…I don't understand."

He took a deep breath. His world pivoted, a chain of events set into motion. "Yes, child, I will teach you. You have much…potential in your voice. But you will need to be dedicated, and there are conditions. You must tell no one, and you must obey me in all that I ask. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes." She lifted her chin.

"Then stand before the mirror," the Voice said softly. "We will begin with your breathing and posture."

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please be awesome and leave a review!

~R


	5. Chapter 5--Phantom of the Opera

**A/N-** A final set of thank-yous is owed to those lovely readers who have stuck with me through these five chapters. I hope you will not be disappointed with the conclusion! A special thanks to AnimeKitty, FantomFriend, Syri Reed, Mominator124, EliseDaae, LittleLongHairedOutlaw, ghostwritten2, and SpookyMormonHellDream. You've all been so kind and encouraging; it's meant a lot.

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.

 **Please read and review.**

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

2017 by Riene

 _ **Chapter 5 - Phantom of the Opera**_

The underground house felt oppressively dark, cold and lonely as he drifted through the dim and gloomy rooms. Time between seeing her felt insubstantial, a void and purposeless. Through it all Christine maintained a constant in his life. Lessons progressed, developing the power of her chest voice, the steadiness of her upper register, correcting her breath control, her pronunciation. He had begun teaching her Italian to aid in her understanding of the lyrics, to provide the proper emotional connection. No matter how he railed or how sharp the criticism, the young singer returned to him.

Well aware of his blind adoration and yearning, he took refuge in their lessons. There was no way to ease the pain in his chest each time he thought of her. Perhaps time would ease the ache…or make it worse. And thus weeks passed, weeks made feverish with composition, with lessons. As always he met Christine in the evenings, after rehearsals, or very early of a morning on performance days, when the Opera House was nearly empty. He was pushing the girl, his protégé, driving her to exhaustion and tears in the quest for the perfection he knew would come. And always, always, she met his demands.

Christine was smiling broadly as the last lingering notes of the Faust aria floated in the air and away, stunned at the change in the power of her voice. Lost as he was in the beauty and intensity of the song, swept away in the longing she might someday mean those words for him, for once he did not criticize.

"That was…superb, my dear," he said softly.

A blush spread and stained her cheeks. "I am glad I have pleased you," she said softly. "Angel?" She glanced up shyly. "Will I ever see you?"

Behind the mirror he froze, heart racing. She desired to see him. Of course she would. His hand clenched painfully around a jutting brick in the corridor. "I…I do not know. Perhaps. Or not. It little matters." _It can never be._ "You need rest now. Go home, child, and sleep."

* * *

Backstage the company readied for another day's rehearsal and preparation for the evening's performance. He paused in the early-morning gloom as Adele Giry passed, intent on making her way to the where the corps de ballet would be assembling. A movement in the shadows arrested her progress; the older woman's eyes narrowed and she sharply rapped the heavy stick on the floor.

He'd seen them together often; Sorelli pale and teary-eyed, the tall man composed but a bit grim around the mouth. She said goodbye to him, her hand reaching for his briefly before he turned away. The dancer bit her lips and hurried toward the open doorway in the corridor behind the Opera stage

The ballet mistress quietly closed the door behind the young woman and put out a hand, stopping her and searching her face. "You are late." The dancer merely ducked her head and passed by, pulling her shawl more tightly about her thin shoulders. Adele sighed; such things never ended well.

She raised her face at the soft slurring sound of a dragging cloak, searching the shadows. Golden eyes reflected back. "I don't know what is worse," the older woman said bitterly, "that she loves him or thinks he loves her…enough." Shaking her head, Adele departed after the errant dancer.

He filed the information away curiously. Human emotions were often incomprehensible to him. Use, betrayal, and abandonment…those he understood.

* * *

"Christine." She looked up. Meg was gazing at her earnestly, a puzzled but intent look on her normally open face. The two were sitting cross-legged on bales of old curtains, diligently sewing ribbons on their point shoes and stitching the toes, an unending task.

"Yes?" She bit off the end of a thread and stretched, easing cramped back muscles.

"I…I heard you, last night, singing. That _was_ you in the old dressing room, wasn't it?" At Christine's sudden pallor and alarm, she rushed on, putting a hand on the older girl's arm. "No no, don't look like that! I thought it was you, and I just wanted to say how much you've improved! You sounded so beautiful! He's really helping you!"

"H-he is?" Her heart was pounding. She thought they'd been so careful.

Meg was regarding her, wide-eyed and puzzled. "Yes? That was your voice tutor, yes? I heard another voice talking with you."

Christine swallowed hard. "Yes, Meg. It's a…a friend…who is giving me lessons. He doesn't want anyone to know, or they'd," she improvised, "they'd ask him, too. And…I want to surprise everyone."

Meg's face took on a look of impish delight. "I'll keep your secret! Don't worry! Are you going to try for a position? Can I tell Maman? She would be so happy for you!"

"No! No don't, please!" Christine's voice was shrill, and Meg pulled back, hurt. "Please…I don't want anyone to know. My teacher is very strict, he made me promise." She grabbed Meg's hands desperately. "Promise me you won't tell anyone!"

"Of course," she said slowly, "if that is what you wish." Meg shook her head; she would wonder about her friend's odd behavior later. Surely Christine wasn't doing anything shameful? She squeezed the older girl's hands again. "Don't worry."

* * *

"My dear Moncharmin, you're looking rather unwell." The voice echoed about him, amused and disdaining. The manager jumped, inwardly cursing his shaking hands as he attempted to thrust an invoice below the other papers on his desk.

"You…" he sputtered, then straightened. "Damn you. What do you want?"

"Nothing, M Moncharmin. Merely a reminder that my 'salary' is due next week. I do so dislike delays. Au revoir."

The manager passed a trembling hand over his perspiring forehead. Perhaps it was time to consider a change of career….or retire.

Pleased with Moncharmin's discomfort, he stalked through the corridors and ascended the flies, a shortcut on his way to the upper levels of the Opera House. Two stagehands passed talking beneath, and he froze. The faintest sense of motion, of sound, was enough to send him reeling backwards, the heavy sandbag missing his face by mere fractions, but sending the black cloth mask fluttering to the level below. From nearby a hoarse voice swore, then cackled.

"I missed you this time, Phantom, but I'll get you next," it sneered. He spun about, seeking the source of that wheezy threat, and was blinded by a lantern.

"God, you're one ugly bastard. You leave Carlotta alone, you hear, or next time…"

His fist clenched over the lasso. If only the man was not out of range, he would be dangling dead now, bloodshot eyes bulging out of that unshaven, greasy face. He took a step forward and the man blanched, backing away.

"You dare threaten me? Get out of my theater, Buquet, while you can," he spat contemptuously. "La Carlotta evidently doesn't pay you for your brains."

A rude gesture was his response, as the scene-shifter swung away and down the ladder. Barely competent at best, his prying and spying was most unwelcome, and it took little for him to be cajoled into telling tales. The man would have to go.

Abandoning his plan for the roof, he swept furiously down the corridor, only to find the way blocked by a gaggle of dancers. He snarled at little Cecile Jammes, who squeaked and bolted in fright. Damnation…was he to encounter everyone in the building this morning, all save the one he sought?

* * *

With the man now brought to his attention, he began noting him everywhere—in a box at various performances, often in the company of another younger man, fair where the elder was dark, but alike enough to be a brother, or entering a carriage bearing a coat of arms, or striding grimly through the Rotonde. Sometimes he was accompanied by a group of other men, drinking champagne and asking for introductions amongst the dancers and chorus, men seeking an easy evening of coarse companionship and no entanglements, empty promises made between glasses of cheap wine or cassis. Men who thought nothing of taking what he could never know. He despised them all.

A note, fluttering down one evening backstage, brought him the answers he sought.

Adele paused, folding and tucking away the black-bordered missive thoughtfully. "He is Philippe, the Comte de Chagny. The boy is his brother, recently on leave from the Navy. There are two sisters as well, I believe. I have seen them frequently about town. They are…quite wealthy."

The brothers were as different in temperament as they were in looks. The older, Philippe, was dark and frowning, impeccably dressed and concerned with propriety, a man who held himself tightly leashed. The younger, Raoul, walked with an easy spring in his step, with a quick smile and pleasant comment for all. His lips curled in a sneer of disdain; the weights and concerns of the world had not yet had much effect on this young man's brow. Both appeared to be on familiar terms with Moncharmin, meeting him in his office or at dinner, discussing the affairs of the Opera House.

And Moncharmin…Moncharmin appeared unaccountably pleased with himself lately. Recently he had been spending afternoons away from the Opera House, in the company of the younger Chagny brother, and occasionally meeting for dinner with two other men. The meetings were of an earnest and jovial nature, handshakes had taken place. Developments were afoot and he loathed change, especially when he had been unable to discern the nature of that change. The men would all need wary watching.

* * *

Adele Giry glanced up into the shadows above the proscenium again. Nothing, though she was nearly certain there had been a swirl in the gloom above. She glared into the darkness, irritated. All day there had been a brooding sense of watchfulness. It had started this morning when she confronted Christine about her mysterious absences. The girl had blushed and evaded her queries, and Meg's guilty face had been enough impetus to demand an explanation from her own daughter. Exasperated, she walked briskly back to her office.

"What do you want of me?"

Cold and clipped, from everywhere and nowhere, the words settled around her and Adele steeled herself. "I wish to know your intentions with Christine," she said evenly. "I know of your lessons and interactions. What game are you playing at?"

"It is no business of yours," the voice hissed.

"It is entirely my business. Christine has no family and has been under my care for many years. I think of her as my own daughter, Monsieur, and I will know what you will with her."

"She is indeed an orphan," the voice said smoothly, "with no one to see to her future save you and I. Marguerite will be _prima ballerina_ some day, and will no doubt marry well. I seek the same security for Christine. She will be _prima donna_ of the Opera, under my tutelage."

Adele Giry frowned, considering. "You need have no fear for the little Daae," the voice continued softly. "I am…merely her teacher."

Adele tipped her head, thoughtful and considering. "You mean for her to take the stage here, at the Opera Garnier."

"I do."

* * *

He studied her from behind the mirror, possessively. His Angel looked tired; there were dark circles under her eyes. Was she ill? Concerned, he pitched his voice around her softly.

"My dear, is all well with you?"

Christine started, then smiled faintly. "Yes, Angel. I'm just tired. Some of us were out late last night at La Taverna. A couple of the girls had been invited to sing, and we all went along." She smiled again, bemused. "There was a lot of wine and _cassis_. And so many people! I had no idea those places were so crowded."

La Taverna. He knew only too well what happened in the upstairs rooms and alleyways around that place. A vision arose, his Christine, defiled and weeping…a visceral rage overcame him. She must not, _must_ not be allowed in any danger.

"You are not to ever go there again! Do you understand! I forbid it! La Taverna is no place for one such as you!" Some of the rage must have bled into his voice, for she blanched and recoiled as if struck.

"I'm sorry, Maestro," she said miserably. "I didn't know."

He clenched his shaking hands and tried to modify his voice. "Christine, I fear for your safety there. That place has a dark and evil reputation. I do not wish anything to happen to you."

"We were perfectly safe," she said resentfully. "Nothing happened. Artemis and Berthe sang, that's all. We shared a glass or two of cassis."

"None the less, you will not go there again."

Her eyes flashed. "And if I do?"

He took in a deep breath and gritted his teeth, icy rage spilling through his thoughts. She dared defy him? Secretly, he relished the times she showed spirit and argued back. The girl would need some of the diva temperament to survive in this world. But it would never do to disobey _him_.

"Angel?"

He stepped further back into the shadows of the passageway, lest she hear even the slightest breath or ruffle of garment. Let her think her _angel_ departed. He had other business tonight.

"Maestro? Are you there?"

He smiled faintly, amused at the increasing worry in her voice.

In the little dressing room, Christine sank on the chaise. She had defied him; her Angel was gone. She was alone again.

* * *

Entering the manager's office took mere seconds. Finding that which he sought took only moments longer; the man was not clever about choosing a hiding place. He set aside the strong box, heavy from the evening's proceeds and day's take, and reached for the black dispatch-cases. From his breast pocket he took a flat leather case and set it on the table, opening and removing a long thin tool. Dexterous, bony fingers inserted the hooked end into the lock and turned it gently, seeking the pressure of tumblers and the faint click of movement. Another thin wire, and a third, a pressure upwards, and voila, the hasp popped free. He smiled, a feral gleam of delight in skills perfected over years of practice. Learning to manipulate a lock had been one of the earliest skills he'd learned, teaching himself in the deep of night when a child's shrunken stomach cried out for food. _She_ had locked him away often, conveniently forgetting about him for days at a time. Thin bits of broken wire had served him well then, and he had quickly learned to conceal the stolen blankets and ends of bread or cheese. Now the locksmith's tools made such tasks so much the easier.

He slipped the lightweight silk from his face before lighting the candle. There were no windows here, making the room more secure, or so Moncharmin believed, and that meant he was even less likely to be observed.

For all the man was an inefficient manager, the documents were in strict order. Orders for supplies, contracts with the suppliers, agreements with sponsors. His lip curled derisively, the newest patron appeared to be the younger Chagny brother. Contracts with the principals, with the employees. And here it was, the document he sought, the one he'd caught barely a glimpse of the other day when the two men had been visiting the office. He raised the candle, skimming the lines quickly, his heart rate accelerating / his anger intensifying. A contract of sale, a transference of deed. The Opera House was being sold….to a Messieurs Richard Firmin and Giles André.

* * *

"Angel?"

"Yes, my dear," he said softly.

"When shall I be ready," she hesitated, "when do you think I might audition for a role?"

"Soon," he replied quietly. "Soon you will be ready to share your divine instrument, and the world will be ready to receive your gift. And all the world will fall at your feet, my Christine."

"I had hoped….the new opera and casting was announced today."

"Oh?" Though he was well aware, he kept his voice noncommittal.

"It is to be Chalumeau's _Hannibal_ , with Carlotta and Ubaldo in the leads."

"Unfortunate," he sneered. "Who is to understudy Carlotta?"

Christine grimaced. "Oh, no one. Carlotta will allow no understudy."

"Then you will study her part, my dear, in secret."

She barely restrained an eye roll. "What is the purpose? Carlotta…"

"Carlotta should not be so certain of anything." Carlotta would not, in fact, take kindly to anyone, especially an inexperienced soubrette, challenging her. The diva had worked and schemed too hard, for too many years, to achieve her exalted position.

But there was no arguing with her teacher. "Yes, Maestro."

"Then we shall begin."

* * *

"That was really good, Christine!" Meg clapped, delighted, as Christine bowed. Singing Queen Elissa's aria had felt good, even a trifle daring. For though her teacher had forbidden all singing in public, he had said nothing about singing in private, in the home of her oldest friends. She had needed someone else to hear, someone to offer praise and honest opinion.

Adele Giry dipped her head, smiling pleasantly. "Yes, my dear, you are improving dramatically, and in such a short span of months."

Standing in the familiar worn comfort of the Girys' parlor, the girl sighed. "I only wish I could thank him, for all he's done for me."

Adele Giry raised her eyebrows. "But surely, child…" and Meg began giggling.

"How can you not thank him? Just say it!"

"I…I don't know who he is," Christine said softly, miserably realizing how very young and naïve it sounded.

Meg burst into a peal of laughter. "How can you not know who your teacher is, Christine? Why, he could be the Opera Ghost himself!"

"Marguerite!" Adele frowned, drawing her straight black brows into a line. But at that moment the teakettle began to whistle and Meg rose, not at all abashed, her eyes skipping merrily as she dashed to the kitchen.

Ashen, Christine turned to the ballet mistress, the sudden realization flooding through her. "Oh my God, Madame," she whispered and clutched the sideboard. "I feel such a fool. How did I not think, how did I…"

"I believe it to be so," Adele said gently, to the trembling young women. "But I do not think you have anything to fear. Has he been anything other than courteous in your presence?"

She sank onto the skirted chair, twisting her hands. "No, Madame. He is always strict, the most exacting teacher I have ever had. He had never been…inappropriate."

Adele Giry smiled suddenly, though her eyes were anxious. "Please say nothing of it to Meg. This Opera Ghost nonsense has gone on long enough. The _petites rats_ speak of nothing but the Ghost, and the _corps_ are enough of a superstitious lot."

* * *

"I have heard a rumor that M. Moncharmin is of ill health. There have been a number of men in and out of the offices lately," Adele Giry said slowly, scanning the note. "But I assure you, I know no more of this matter than you. I wonder what this will mean for the Opera."

"There is a new patron, as well," he sneered. "The Chagny boy."

But the ballet mistress merely nodded and met the angry golden eyes without flinching. "What will you do?"

"I do not know. Yet."

* * *

Christine adjusted the strap of her costume and swept her heavy hair out of the way as Meg's dexterous fingers quickly fastened the tight bodice of red and green velvet. Both girls dashed to the mirror, flicking aside the long fringes that formed the costumes' skirts, reaching for and adjusting the gaudy headdresses and pulling on bracelets.

"Five minutes!" shouted someone in the doorway, and Meg grimaced.

"We're coming, we're coming!"

In a swirl of color, the _corps de ballet_ swarmed out on to room behind the stage, pointing toes and stretching, a few stopping by the flat box of powered rosin. In moments they formed two lines and assumed first position, waiting with downcast faces and darting eyes as Madame Giry entered into the room.

Her black eyes swept over them, two lines of young women in bejeweled costumes, toes turned out properly, awaiting warm-ups. She nodded once at the waiting pianist, and the girls smoothly began their exercises.

M. Reyer bustled about on the stage, assuming the role of répétiteur, leaving the slowly-assembling orchestra in the hands of the junior conductor. From the wings, Ubaldo Piangi strutted in, tugging ineffectually at his costume and patting his prop dagger, his bearded face breaking into a great white smile as he rushed to kiss Carlotta's hand, the diva turning from snapping at her dresser to exchange air kisses with the leading tenor.

The Slave Master dashed by energetically, calling a cheery greeting to the dancers, followed by a lighting technician and two prop men. Eyes narrowed, he followed, rapidly ascending a shadowed ladder and retreating into the flies. From here he could easily observe the stage.

The heavy chimes of the great hall clock echoed through the corridors signaling the start of the day. Rehearsal for _Hannibal_ began and he secreted himself among the catwalks, still brooding. Moncharmin's calendar had shown an appointment for this morning, a meeting with the new managers. Changes were occurring in his Opera, rapid and unforeseen disturbances.

The Opera Ghost was not a man who passively accepted change.

* * *

And thus Act 1 of the ALW musical commences…and we all know the rest of the story.

Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. I'd really love to see this story get 50 reviews!

Also, I have a question—would you be interested in reading a modern AU E/C story from me?

~R


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